Canto XCVIII

I wake, I rise; from end to end,

      Of all the landscape underneath

      I find no place that does not breathe

Some gracious memory of my friend:

No gray old grange, or lonely fold,

      Or low morass and whispering reed,

      Or simple stile from mead to mead,

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold;

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw

      That hears the latest linnet trill,

      Nor quarry trench'd along the hill,

And haunted by the wrangling daw;

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock;

      Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves

      To left and right thro' meadowy curves,

That feed the mothers of the flock;

But each has pleased a kindred eye,

      And each reflects a kindlier day;

      And, leaving these, to pass away,

I think once more he seems to die.